


Vituperan

by Lyn_Laine



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Pre-Canon, Alternate Universe - Skating, Artist Harry, Baking, Fashion Designer Harry, Gen, Musician Harry, Musician Harry Potter, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-02-25
Updated: 2018-02-27
Packaged: 2019-03-23 18:31:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 13,462
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13793655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lyn_Laine/pseuds/Lyn_Laine
Summary: The Dursleys decide that Dudley should be sent to a fancy, brag-worthy boarding school for his primary school years. The kicker? Because of a school technicality, Harry has to come along for entrance examinations, too. When essentially raised by a fancy prep school instead of the Dursleys, the trajectory of both boys, particularly Harry, turns out... significantly differently.





	1. Gifted

**Vituperan**

Chapter One: Gifted

The Dursleys drove out of Surrey and began the long twist down winding green country roads.  Dudley was playing a handheld video game in the next seat over in the back, but Harry chose to look out the window and watch the world pass by.  He was six years old and going somewhere he had never even seen before, somewhere that didn’t really give him any inkling of hope because Dudley was going with him.

Uncle Vernon had held up the application sheets one night in the living room, his eyes gleaming.  “You two,” he said with threatening intent, “are going to a very nice boarding school for the rest of your primary.  Very posh, very fancy.  Lovely thing to talk about at dinner parties, lovely thing for Dudley.  It’s called Vituperan’s School for the Gifted.”

“I don’t want to go anywhere!” Dudley had complained loudly and immediately from his assigned place on the sofa beside Harry.  Uncle Vernon stood above them.

“And I don’t want to go anywhere with Dudley,” said Harry.  “Why _are_ you allowing me to go, anyway?” he wondered.  “The school must cost something.”

Uncle Vernon gave him a sideways begrudging glare.  “It is required, if we apply,” he admitted gruffly, “that _all_ children of age be tested for… gifts,” he sneered, as if the very idea of Harry having any gifts was stupid.  “You’re both six.  So you both have to apply.”  So he _had_ asked if Harry could be skipped.  That figured.

“Are either of us really… gifted?” Harry wondered tentatively, skeptical.

“You have to take a test, and you’re going to pass!” his uncle barked, his eyes flashing.  “Or be humiliated trying!  And that’s final!”

Harry had not been able to study because he had no idea how a school tested for the mythical “gifted” quality.  He was pretty sure dully that he was going to fail - and be humiliated, as Uncle Vernon had predicted.  If he didn’t fail, he’d be going to school full of overachievers alongside Dudley, who would probably beat him up and pick on him a lot.

He hadn’t been kidding, though.  Somehow he couldn’t see Dudley being at a school for the gifted.  Dudley was dumb.

They drove past a curtain of ivy hanging from a willow tree, rounded a paved drive corner, and found that the paved road wound in a circle right up to a vast Victorian era estate.  The front building was vivid crimson and black, with grand towers and turrets and distinctive gingerbread trim, two simple but uneven-looking stories.

Harry felt a jump of nervousness in the pit of his stomach as they parked in front of a long, sheltered walkway up to the front door and got out of the car.  It was very quiet, out here in the countryside.  Birds twittered in edgeside trees.

Dudley gave an explosive sigh.  “This is stupid!” he said.

“Duddy, dear, please try to be nice,” Aunt Petunia cooed fondly, putting a hand to his cheek.  “This will be so good for my darling boy… oh, I hate that I won’t see you for so long…”  Tears had filled her blue eyes.  Uncle Vernon ruffled a scowling Dudley’s hair.

Harry as usual was kept out of this little family picture, standing off to the side and watching.

As he walked in, he was intimately aware that he wasn’t wearing very nice clothes.  All he had to wear were old hand me downs of Dudley’s, all of which were humongous on his much smaller frame.  His glasses were round, wire-rimmed, and taped at the nose.  His messy black hair was hideous.  He was small and skinny.

Not exactly the picture of the gleaming rich straight A overachiever he imagined fitting in here.  The student in his imagination was female with long straight blonde hair, wealthy clothes, pencil skirts, and a snotty manner.

The manor house was rather simple on the inside, but somehow grand.  Lots of windows let in sunlight into the entrance hall, each window hung with black velvet curtains with crimson trim.  The carpeting even all the way up the sweeping central staircase was crimson, and the wood was again black.  The walls were a creamy off-white.  Sound echoed pleasantly in the surprisingly warm, large room.  Vast doorways on either side of them led to other parts of the manor house.

A brisk woman in an official business jacket and skirt walked up to them.  She had dirty blonde hair and a crisp face with serious lines, but she didn’t seem unfriendly.  She stuck out a hand.  “Mrs Crawford,” she introduced herself, shaking hands with Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia.  “I take it you’re here for the testing.”

“Yes,” said Uncle Vernon, swelling up importantly and obviously trying to be intimidating.  “We’ve already paid in full, though we will be refunded of course if they fail.”

Harry looked down.  That would be him.

“Of course,” said Mrs Crawford, smiling thinly and not looking at all intimidated.  “Now.  These would be Harry and Dudley.”  She leaned down to smile at them.  “Very nice to meet you.  Who is who?”

Dudley was looking petulant and childish, so Harry admitted quietly, “I’m Harry.”

“Right.  Well, let’s take you up for testing,” said Mrs Crawford, standing straight.  “You’ll be tested in separate rooms.”

 _“Now?”_ Harry asked, blanching.  Dudley had paled visibly.

“Yes.  It’s testing day.  No time like the present!” said Mrs Crawford cheerfully.  “Mr and Mrs Dursley, you of course cannot be there to help for the testing portion.  There is a tea being held for the parents in the breakfast room.  That way.”  She pointed.  “The children will be brought back to you when they’ve finished.”

“Take courage, Duddy,” Aunt Petunia cooed, and then Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia walked away.  Dudley now looked terrified and trapped, away from the shelter of his parents for the first time as their backs retreated away from him.  But Harry had never felt incredibly supported by his aunt and uncle anyway.

He was going to fail and he was weirdly calm about it.

Mrs Crawford looked from the Dursleys to the two boys, and then between the two boys.  Her eyes narrowed and for a split second Harry could see the cogs turning.  Mrs Crawford, he realized, was not stupid.

“Very well,” she said, turning around.  “As we go up to the testing room, I’ll give you a little mini tour.

“Vituperan’s School for the Gifted is a vast Victorian estate, a set of small manor houses just like this one in a square around a central garden courtyard.  All are decorated in black and crimson velvet.  We do have a school fund, for clothing and such - we do make trips from the courtyard by bus into the nearest town - and each passing student is given a private bedroom.  We have no secondary school, only a primary school to start students on the path to a talented life.  Students take classes and room in sets - different sets live and are taught in different buildings.  The sets are assigned randomly.  All buildings and sets look and are taught essentially the same way.”

Harry felt a small flicker - momentary, brief - of tentative hope.  If he wasn’t put in Dudley’s set…

“Now, all the living is done in the manor space you are seeing around you.  The yearly testing is of course started upstairs.  But we have built underground a long series of interconnected floors, and that is where the teaching and learning happens.  In the basement cellar floors.  You will only see the underground basement cellar floors of a building when you begin the most rigorous part of the testing process.”

… Just how much did this test entail? Harry wondered.

“So without further ado, to your left is the dining room, and the laundry room connected to the dining room, followed going down the way by the kitchen and the cook’s quarters, and the breakfast room connected to the kitchen.  The breakfast room leads into the den, where games and common room and homework activities are performed, and the den leads out a back side door into the central courtyard.  There used to be a garage there, but we took it out.

“Teacher’s offices and quarters take up the space behind the staircase and winding around to the entire right side of the first floor.

“Going up the stairs…”

And they mounted the staircase, listening.

“We have all the students’ bedrooms.  Student rooms get an entire floor to themselves.  For the yearly testing, we have cleared out several bedrooms and made them introductory testing spaces.  Testing is done over a long period of time because each student is assigned a personal examiner.  You’ll see why when you enter a testing room.”

They entered a long, winding series of crimson-carpeted hallways with off-white creamy walls and simple black wood doors labeled with letters and numbers.  Mrs Crawford stopped for Dudley first.  “Dudley,” she said, “in here.”

“I don’t want to do this,” said Dudley, crossing his arms and scowling down at the floor.

Harry realized… incredibly… that Dudley was _scared._

“Well, I’m afraid you have to, your parents have already paid a great deal of money,” said Mrs Crawford simply.  

“So?” said Dudley, his face going red.  Harry braced himself for an impending tantrum.

“Mr Dursley.  Please enter the room.”  Mrs Crawford steered a surprised Dudley firmly into the testing room by the shoulder, opening the door and then closing it on him.  “Let’s go,” she said to Harry matter of factly, and she walked right on down the hall.

Harry followed behind her, positively impressed.  He didn’t envy Dudley’s personal testing examiner.

“Here is your room,” said Mrs Crawford at last, pausing beside a room just like any other.  “Please enter.”  She looked wary after Dudley.

Harry tried to give her a small smile through his sudden case of nerves.  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, and made to walk through the door.

“I must say, Harry,” said Mrs Crawford in surprise, “you seem to be treated worse, but you’re much better behaved than your cousin.”

Harry stood there awkwardly, pleased.  “Oh - thank you,” he managed, and then took a deep, bracing breath, shut the door behind him, and turned to face the intimidating testing room.

Which was not intimidating at all.

A brunette woman with short hair, a round face, and a cheerful dimpled smile stood in front of him in an empty room, her hands folded.  “Hi,” she said, “I’m Mindy!  And I take it from your confused and frightened expression that your parents were one of those who signed their child up for a gifted school without looking into what that actually meant.”

“Well… I live with my aunt and uncle, because my parents have passed, but that sounds like my aunt and uncle,” Harry admitted.  “They wanted to sound good at dinner parties.”

“Ah.”  She smiled sympathetically and nodded.  “Yes, it does happen.  Okay, let me explain.  They can’t back out now anyway, now they’ve signed the paperwork and paid - not if you pass, which is not as hard as it sounds.

“We test our students in a wide variety of skills.  From there, your education proceeds as normally - you take all the same basic educational classes that a regular primary school student would.  Academically rigorous, but it does not require a genius to do it.”

Harry paused in surprise.

“Vituperan is instead called a school for the gifted because of the skills we test our students in.  You have to pass into six specializations to pass.  You take after-hours lessons and training in those specializations.  At least one of them has to be some kind of physical activity type skill, but they can really be anything, in the arts, sciences, liberal arts, or physical sports.  You take ‘gifted’ or ‘exceptional’ classes in those six specific areas - you will be passed into them because you are judged to be unusually talented in the basic skills required to perform them.

“So at Vituperan: you have six regular primary school educational courses over a single school-day, and then six after-hours specializations to practice after that.  This sounds like a lot to include in one day, so we alternate specializations and vastly decrease their time span from regular classes - three short specialization sessions per day, alternating between one day and the next.  So Monday you would have a school-day and then your first three short specializations.  Tuesday you would have a school-day and then your other three short specializations.  Wednesday the whole process begins anew.

“Get it?”

“Er - yes,” said Harry, his head swimming, somehow now even more nervous than before.

“What’s wrong?” Mindy asked, frowning in concern.

“I just… I don’t think I’m that good at anything, ma’am,” he admitted, scuffing the toe of his shoe.

To Harry’s surprise, Mindy smiled.  “No one is perfect starting out - Harry, is it?”  

Harry nodded.  “Harry Potter,” he managed.

“Harry,” said Mindy warmly, sympathetic.  “Most six year olds are not already incredibly good at something.  It’s a bit complicated, but we look for potential - not defined skills.  You’ll see when we start testing.”

Harry didn’t think he had much potential in anything either, but he decided not to admit to this out loud.  And he couldn’t imagine Dudley being talented at anything.

“So.”  Mindy beamed and clapped.  “Let’s get started!”  Harry smiled despite himself at her enthusiasm.

But he did have one question.

“Er - Mindy - if I pass - can I be put in a set that’s different from Dudley’s?” he asked, wincing.

“How surprising,” said Mindy.  “Most siblings request the opposite.  Why?”

“Well… he likes picking on me, and beating me up, and keeping me from having friends,” Harry muttered.  “It was like that since preschool, all the way through kindergarten and year one of primary.”

Mindy looked alarmed.  “Come with me,” he said, and Harry was terrified he’d blown it as he followed her out the door - petrified that his aunt and uncle would be told.  But Mindy said, “Wait here,” and she walked up to Mrs Crawford down the hall.  They talked in hurried, whispered conversation for a few minutes as Harry stood there, his stomach churning with nerves.

Finally, Mindy nodded and came back toward Harry.  Mrs Crawford disappeared with quick, brisk steps down a different hallway, as if off on some important mission.  

Mindy said, “Not to worry, Harry.  You won’t be placed in the same building as Dudley if you pass.  Though we will tell you what classes he got, just for your basic information, and he will be told yours.  But you won’t see much of each other.  In fact, Dudley has already been placed on what is called disciplinary watch, assuming he passes.”

“Dudley hasn’t gotten any disciplinary watch at all before,” Harry admitted.

“Yes, we suspect as much,” said Mindy with thinned lips.  “He has already given his examiner a great deal of trouble.  Not like you.”  She favored Harry with a small smile.  “Shall we get started?”

Harry steeled himself and nodded.

They walked down a series of long hallways, back down the stairs, through the entrance hall, and through a small doorway hidden behind the staircase.  They went down a series of dark, cold, narrow steps… before finally walking out into a magnificent place.

“Welcome to the Basement,” said Mindy.

The Basement, so-called, was a series of interconnected floors walled in by glass, so that people could be seen like ants crawling all over the staircases and floors below the main walkway.  It was dark, with plain stone walls, cool but not cold, and brightly lit by fake warm sunlight lamps connected to the glass floors.  Harry could see art rooms, music rooms, sports rooms, a library, a computer lab, a small theater, a kitchen, even a skating rink and an ice rink.  Little dark ants of incoming students were being led everywhere through the floors by different teachers, down glass staircases, past glass walls and floors.  The Basement was a strange combination between dark and lit.  One whole right side of the Basement seemed to be just for regular if elegant, chic, and white modernistic classrooms.

“Come with me,” said Mindy, and Harry was led through a dizzying variety of floors, into the huge library, and then into a small anteroom connected to the library.  Mindy and he sat across from each other at a small table, alone, almost like an interview.  Harry could feel the cool Basement air on his skin.

“So I’m going to ask you to talk about your life - things you notice, things you’ve experienced, that sort of thing,” said Mindy.  “And at the end, I’m going to narrow down your testing choices.”

So she asked surprising questions, and Harry began talking - about what surprised him as a huge variety of things concerning his life.  He talked and talked, and Mindy nodded along.  Harry supposed he was allowed to say anything he pleased - he was being tested by his aunt and uncle’s command, after all.

At last Mindy banged the table.

“Right!” she said.  “I think we’ve got it!”

She scribbled some things down furiously on a piece of paper attached to a clipboard for a few minutes, and then stood.  “Stand up, and follow me,” she said.  “If you pass anything, you will get to know what part of our conversation led me to that conclusion.”

First Harry was led to an indoor sports field - there were pools and rinks, but he was led to the sports field first.  A massive male coach there took him through basic track and field, and then through some basic football exercises.  Harry thought he did pretty well - not great, but pretty well.

But Mindy was frowning.  His heart sunk.

Then, of all things, she led him to the ice rink.

“I’ve never skated before,” he admitted. 

“Well, put on a pair of skates and try it out,” said Mindy simply.  She was watching carefully.

So Harry sat down on a bench, strapped on a pair of skates from a cart off to the side, and took out onto the ice.  This seemed interesting, so he was rather looking forward to it.  After a few stops and starts, he figure out basically how to keep upright and move on the ice, and he glided out into the center of the ice rink.

He just skated around, doing little loop the loops and little turns, slowly getting the hang of it.  He smiled whimsically to himself.

“This is pretty cool!” he called, enjoying the rush of cool air through his hair, the feeling of gliding through every random loop and every turn.  He felt true joy.  This, he could do without a coach - this was easy.  He learned all the basics to skating around softly very quickly.

Then someone called out, “I’ll take him!”

Harry turned around, stopping with his toe pick as he’d already figured out how to do, pausing in surprise.  The coach had come out of the bathroom and was standing beside Mindy, a huge smile on her face.

Mindy smiled.  “Harry, this is Sam Taylor, the figure skating coach.”  She was a busty, small woman with a blonde ponytail.

“Figure skating?” said Harry puzzled.  “That’s for girls, isn’t it?”

“A common misconception,” said Sam Taylor, skating out beside him onto the ice, impossibly and impressively fast and graceful.  “There are just as many men in figure skating as there are women - both in couples skating, and in single.”

“I don’t have to wear a skirt, do I?” said Harry in dread.

Sam Taylor barked out a laugh.  “No, kid,” she chuckled.  “You get trousers and a shirt.”

“You definitely passed this one, Harry,” Mindy said, smiling, as Harry beamed and skated back toward her.  “You said you were fast, and I noticed you were small, so I started trying out some physical activities.  You’re all right at football and track, not bad, but here is where you really stand out.  That kind of natural skill, speed, steadiness, and grace - that’s what we’re looking for.  You’re the perfect build for it, too - small and slim.  Not lithe or muscular yet, but don’t worry, we’ll bulk you up.

“And you like it, don’t you?”

“I do,” Harry admitted, sitting back down and taking off his skates.  He realized he was still smiling at the rush of adrenaline, some of his previous fears vanished.  His uncle would hate this, being so macho himself, and his uncle could do nothing about it, which somehow made Harry glad.

“You were doing loops and everything,” said Sam Taylor, skating back to the edge of the rink, and watching him, smiling sharply with a gleam in her eye.  “You didn’t look scared on the ice at all, right from the start.  And you seem pretty quiet, sort of skeptical and sarcastic, but you were really expressing yourself out there, too.

“Very nice.  Just what we’re looking for.”

Harry put his shoes back on, strangely pleased with himself, and he and Mindy left the ice rink - hopefully, Harry thought, not for the last time.  He still had to find an incredible five more things he was good at.

Confusingly, next Mindy took Harry to the kitchens, long rows of work stations at long rows of counters.  “Because my aunt makes me do kitchen chores?” he asked, making a face.

“Correction: she makes you cook.  But when you started talking to me, you talked in great detail about different tastes and how much you’d love eating more - and you put a particular emphasis on chocolate.  Which is usually in baked goods.  You really seem to like sweets, in fact.”

So she introduced him to the chef.  “This is Marcus,” she said of the big, round-faced Black man with a friendly smile.  “He’s going to try you at baking.”

“Okay.  First: how good are you at memory and timing?” Marcus asked.  “Be honest.  And how good are you at working fast?”

“Well, I have to be all those things to cook for my family,” said Harry.  “I haven’t burned anything recently.  It all turned out alright. But… when I think of baking, I think of my aunt’s massive sugared violet puddings.”  He made a face.

“You don’t like what’s called the aesthetic - the look of it,” Marcus realized.  “Well each baker has their own individual look.  That’s one of the things that makes baking and decorating a piece so much fun.  Care to try it out and see what different aesthetics you’ll come up with?”  He raised an eyebrow challengingly.  “Improve on your aunt?”

“... Yeah.  I could try it,” Harry admitted thoughtfully.”

“Perfect,” said Marcus, and he had Harry do something wonderful: go down the row and taste different chocolate breads.  “These were made by older students.  Tell me what you think,” said Marcus.

And Harry rated them: one was a bit grainy, for example, another too soft in the center, this one had too much of that extra flavoring, that one was too overwhelming in flavor, etc.  And Marcus eagerly showed him why each one was good, or why each mistake had happened, going into a bit of what seemed to be the science behind it.  As Marcus explained how all the different ingredients came together, Harry was definitely interested.

“Baking, even more than cooking,” said Marcus, “is a tie between art and science experiment.  We experiment with what tastes and ingredients work well together.  We get creative - but we always have to remember the rules and the science.

“Best of all?  You get to eat whatever you make at the end.  A good motivation for making sure it tastes good.

“I’ll take him,” said Marcus suddenly, turning to Mindy.  “I will teach him baking.  He has a good head for the ideas behind it and a keen taste bud and observant eye when it comes to baked sweets.  He knows what look he likes. He seems to love eating the stuff.  And if he’s to be believed, he has everything else it takes: a good memory, an ability to work fast, and a good sense of timing.”

Mindy smiled.  “So: baking it is.”  She was tallying new skills down on her clipboard.  “Now, would you also like to learn tea-brewing?” she asked Harry.  “We are English,” she said with an amused smile, “and it’s offered with both cooking and baking.”

“Yeah.  People don’t make tea right often enough,” Harry admitted, frowning.  

Marcus and Mindy both smiled.  Mindy started writing.  “A tea snob,” said Marcus.  “Perfect.”  Harry smiled back.

Another girly specialization.  His uncle and cousin would hate him.  But his uncle and cousin already hated him, and Harry already hated them back, so there.  He got to eat and that was good enough for him.

Next, Harry left the kitchens and headed to the art rooms.  First he was tried at photography with a bespectacled, frizzy-haired woman, but he felt awkward taking pictures or asking for something to be moved or posed for him, and he was quickly taken away.  

Next he was tried at painting in another art room.  Mindy did this last bit herself.  He was set in front of an easel and asked to paint from a landscape photograph.  This was easy, nice and relaxing.  He got to try to put in detail every single color he saw in that beautiful landscape, from the grey skies dotted with blue to the deep greens of the leaves.  He got to focus on little details and shapes.

He wasn’t sure how good he did - he had never painted before - but next at the art table the painting was taken away and pencil and paper were set in front of him.  “Draw the first thing that comes to mind,” said Mindy.

Harry paused - and then randomly began drawing Dudley’s awful, bullying, spineless follower Piers with a vivid rat-face.  A lot of anger came out into that particular drawing.  He felt oddly better afterward.

“Do you picture people as other things often?” said Mindy thoughtfully at the end.

“I guess.  I… can picture the absurd things becoming more absurd… really vividly,” Harry tried to explain.

Mindy nodded and began scribbling things down.

“That’s three and four,” she said, looking up.  “You talked a lot about weather and nature, your surroundings, and with your vivid observant eye I decided to try you at painting colorful landscapes.  You passed with flying colors - pun not intended.  You will learn how to paint your surroundings in colors in different styles.  Eventually you will move on to things like people and objects as well.”

Harry somehow couldn’t see himself as an artsy painter, but he supposed he had just been one and it had been interesting… and he had been good at it.  Girly and artsy.  He was batting a thousand.

“Number four: cartoon style graphic design drawing.  I noticed you portrayed the absurdities of people you live with or things you’ve seen in these really vivid descriptions - but you didn’t seem like much of a writer or reader.  So I decided to try you at cartoonist caricature drawing.

“That you also passed: with flying colors.  Not only are you observant, your imaginative humor for the ridiculous is quite vivid.  Your quiet, skeptical sarcasm works to your favor here.”

Four whole skills.  Harry might actually get this.  

“And on the note of being observant…”  

Mindy placed different photographs in front of Harry.  They seemed to be fashion photographs.  

“Do you like any of these?” she asked.

Harry pointed to the male model with long hair, an earring, and boots.   _“That’s_ really cool,” he admitted.

Mindy looked thoughtful.  So other photographs were placed before Harry.  Some were ordinary, some were fantastical.  The ripped clothes stuck out to him, as did the tattoos, the dark eye makeup, the 60’s and 70’s flowy vintage colors, the Victorian era Gothic dress…

“Yeah, I see,” said Mindy thoughtfully at last.

“You do?  … See what?” said Harry, bewildered.  “I’m usually not good at clothes.”

“Correction: you’re not good at conventional clothes,” said Mindy.  “Because they bore you.  You revel in the unconventional.  I wondered, because you talked really closely about different colors and textures as we spoke…  So you have a good head for the basic elements of fashion, you talk automatically about different shades and types of cloth…

“Yes.  I’m putting you down for counterculture fashion.  Counterculture is like… anything rebel, strange, or alternative.”

And she began scribbling away.  A picture of Harry’s future was forming, but it was not quite finished yet.

Next, on an inspiration, Mindy played different pieces of music for Harry there in the art classroom.  “I like that one,” said Harry suddenly, pointing at the stereo for a song.

“Ha!  You do like the music that counterculture fashion comes from!” said Mindy, triumphant.  “That’s rock, classic rock, punk rock - yes.  You have good senses, which means you must have good ears.  I can’t see someone who has excellent taste and keen eyes having terrible ears.

“So I’m putting you into music - guitar and songwriting.  If it doesn’t work, you have six weeks to switch out.  Would you like to sing as well?  If not, someone would have to perform your pieces,” said Mindy absently, looking up.  “Sing them, I mean.”

“Well… I don’t feel like much of a singer, but I like the idea of writing music… and I don’t like the idea of someone else taking my stuff,” Harry admitted.  “Okay.  I’ll try singing as well.”

“You might surprise yourself,” said Mindy, scribbling again.  “And… with the three music elements all together, which is how it should be done anyway… that’s six!”  She looked up and beamed triumphantly, dotting her paper.

“... Really?  I’m in?” said Harry disbelievingly.  “... Doing cool stuff on top of it all?”

“Yes!  You’re in!” Mindy grinned.  “Figure skating, baking and tea-brewing, colorful surroundings paintings, cartoonist caricature-style graphic design drawings, counterculture rebel fashion styles, and guitar and singing and songwriting.”

Beaming slowly, Harry realized he was safe at this school for the next five years.  

Feeling lighter than air, he followed Mindy out of the art room, up the stairs in a kind of daze after all that testing and thinking…

And someone else walked up to Mindy, another adult.  They whispered to her, then left.  Harry stopped on a glass staircase landing in the Basement, puzzled.

Mindy turned to him.  “Your cousin also passed, and has been put into a different set.”

 _“Really?”_ said Harry disbelievingly, boggled.  “What did he get?”

“Virtual video game design, acting, boxing, wrestling, filmmaking, and techno music creation.

“Don’t worry.  Between his different set and his disciplinary restrictions, and the terrible grades we received from his previous school which means academic catchup, you won’t see much of him at first.”

Video games, techno music, television, beating people up, and being good at what Uncle Vernon called “bullshitting” when it came from other people.  Of course.

As Harry walked back up toward the entrance hall with Mindy, he admitted, “Everyone seems really nice here.  Much nicer than in the Surrey city suburbs.”

Mindy smiled wryly.  “We hadn’t talked to your aunt and uncle before letting you in here,” she said.  “No previous history.   _And_ we’re getting the same money for both of you.  Thank goodness, I have a feeling.  I will definitely be putting some of this in my preliminary report.

“Don’t worry, kid.”  She winked when Harry looked worried.  “You’ll end up looking good.”

-

Harry shrank into himself a little when he saw the three Dursleys waiting for him in the entrance hall of the main house, up there in the real sunlight again amid the plush red carpets.  Uncle Vernon was fuming, swelling, furious and red-faced, Dudley standing beside him looking triumphant.

Harry wondered if he could be pulled out of this after all - but Mindy looked calm and unfazed.  She went to stand beside an equally calm Mrs Crawford.

 _“You people lied to us -!”_ Uncle Vernon spat.   _“We could sue -!”_

“No, you couldn’t,” said Mrs Crawford.  “Because we didn’t lie.  We told you everything we thought you needed to know, and we assumed you’d do more research.

“The information was always, Mr Dursley, for those with the wherewithal to _look.”_

Uncle Vernon flinched.

“My son is not taking this silly nonsense!” Aunt Petunia shrieked.  “All this acting and camera work and techno music _nonsense -!”_

“And computer technology, and boxing and wrestling, and excellent academic schooling?  He won’t be doing any of that either?” said Mrs Crawford dryly, raising her eyebrows.

This time it was Aunt Petunia who flinched back and was struck silent.

“It’s all immaterial anyway, this whole argument,” said Mindy, sounding annoyed and puzzled, much sharper and more crisp than a few minutes ago with Harry.  “You’ve signed the paperwork, you’ve paid the money, they’ve passed.  They’re contractually required to attend.  Surely as a businessman, Mr Dursley can appreciate this.”

Uncle Vernon’s cogs were turning, his temple working and his tiny dark eyes moving back and forth furiously.  Harry knew as well as he did - the schooling was fine, some of the Dudley specializations were positively good by Dursley standards, and the bragging rights were still there.  

“Fine,” Uncle Vernon spat out, “they’ll go.”  Harry was amazed and delighted, his heart skipping a beat.  Dudley’s mouth dropped open in horror - his parent failsafe _had_ just in fact failed him.  Presumably after all the in-test tantrums had failed him just the same.  

For once, Dudley Dursley was struck silent.  

“What did the boy get?” Uncle Vernon barked, jerking his head at Harry without looking at him.

Mindy told him.  A cruel smile came over Uncle Vernon’s face.

But the response wasn’t at all the mocking Harry had steeled himself for and even expected.  Something else seemed to be more important than this in Uncle Vernon’s mind.

“And you don’t seem to care what kind of… effect those sorts of classes might have on a person?” he asked in a kind of incredulous humor, still smiling that strange smile.

“Our classwork…?  Mr Dursley, I can assure you, it’s perfectly acceptable,” said Mindy, sounding as confused as six year old Harry felt.

Uncle Vernon actually chuckled darkly.

“All right, fine.  He won’t be living with us.  If Dudley’s to be believed, he won’t even be living with Dudley.

“Fine.  Your consequences, your problem.”

Uncle Vernon steered Dudley and Harry by the shoulders out the front door, Aunt Petunia following behind.

“You deal with him,” Uncle Vernon snapped, and slammed the door in both confused women’s faces.

Harry would think about that a lot.  But he wouldn’t realize its implications for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I graduated from college, I went through a self-identity crisis, and then I got a job. Sorry for the author hiatus. I've been going through a lot of changes. I hope this makes up for it.


	2. Home B14

Chapter Two: Home B14

Harry’s final time that summer back in Surrey with the Dursleys was deeply unpleasant - just about as unpleasant as he was fairly sure his future vacations would be.

The Dursleys did not know Harry had gotten Dudley on disciplinary watch, believing it was his in-test tantrums that had done the trick. And there was also what was in their eyes the added benefit that Dudley was in a different set. But Harry had still seemingly gotten off better than Dudley - no disciplinary watch, no academic catchup to do - and so they were terrible to him.

Dudley and his Surrey school friends chased after Harry constantly to try and beat him up. Harry had to run his absolute fastest to try and stay away. They and their bullying had kept Harry from having any school friends himself, so he had to go somewhere and leave the house for hours if he wanted any escape. (He was allowed wherever. No one ever noticed him come and go.) Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia bullied and mocked Harry, locked him in his cupboard, forced him to do chores, and shouted at him quite often. Other times they ignored him completely. Still other times they limited his food portions and left him hungry, even though they _knew_ he would be starting what was essentially a sport at Vituperan.

Uncle Vernon and Dudley took great glee in ripping apart Harry’s newfound specializations, which varied between alternative (a dreaded Dursley word) and outright girly (terrible for a boy with the Dursleys) and artsy (even worse by all Dursley standards).

“Fucking fairy,” one of them would sneer, Dudley getting the word from his father. “Pansy,” they’d say next. They were bitter, because in reality they could do nothing about it.

Every time this mocking happened, Harry would just grit his teeth and imagine having his own bedroom in a Victorian manor in the countryside and his own fund for clothes in the nearest town, in a safe building with no Dursleys where people were nice to him and he got to learn cool things.

Once something exploded suddenly on a shelf during one of these mockings. Harry was irrationally blamed for it and locked in his cupboard for a few days - having to sneak out to get food at nighttimes while everyone else was in bed. That didn’t help.

More than that, he was realizing after his time somewhere else how little he fit in here in the Little Whinging suburb, with its big boxy white and pink rows of suburban houses that all looked the same, neat green homeowner’s association gardens, and fake climbing people tanning themselves and drinking iced lemonades out on lawn chairs in what was usually quite frankly not a particularly sunny day. Harry didn’t really have the words to describe what he felt, as he looked at the neat housedresses and suits and overly costly clinking bracelets. 

The best word he could come up with was… fake.

But finally, the morning came to drive to moving-in day at Vituperan’s.

Everyone got up very early and rushed around, getting the car ready, grabbing quick breakfast snacks, finalizing packing trunks. Finally, everything was hauled out to the boot of the car by Uncle Vernon, who crammed the trunks in there and slammed the door shut. Aunt Petunia hurried Harry and Dudley into the back of the car, they sat next to each other, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon got in the front seats, and they were off.

Harry watched the cookie cutter suburb of Little Whinging, and then the wealthy city of Surrey with its tall metallic dark buildings and glittering lights, fall behind him out the back window.

They made the quiet, winding countryside drive in much the same way they had before. It was autumn now, and everything was turning crisp, blue-sky, cool, and brilliant colors of red and gold. Uncle Vernon looked grim, Aunt Petunia worried, and Dudley was staring and frowning in consternation at his handheld video game without playing it.

Only Harry seemed more eager to see what was going to happen and more pleasantly nervous than he was upset or worried.

Finally, they made it to that long, curving, paved driveway up to the gingerbread trim and uneven turrets of the dark manor house, standing amidst fire-colored fallen leaves. The rounded pavement was crammed with parent cars. They all got out, slamming the car doors shut. Harry had his building number clutched in a piece of paper in his hand, but he didn’t really need one - in a final Dursley injustice, Harry had gotten the frontal main building while Dudley had gotten one off to the left.

Uncle Vernon grabbed the trunks and they all followed the sea of people moving toward the campus buildings.

They stopped by Harry’s building first, because it was closest. Harry had just enough time to enter underneath the roof of the walkway and through the front door, looking around brightly at the excited bustle and chatter and scraping of families and trunks and crowds all around him in the black and crimson velvet entrance hall with huge, warm, lit windows…

Before Uncle Vernon slammed his trunk down beside him, startling him. The trunk was nearly as big as Harry.

“Use that piece of paper and go find your room number,” Uncle Vernon sneered, and the Dursleys left back through the front door to take very loving care of Dudley, leaving Harry standing there very small and alone beside his massive trunk in the entryway.

They had gotten him here, where there was a cook and a kitchen and a bedroom and money and buses into the nearest town, even an education and nearby adults. That seemed to be where they felt their duties ended.

Harry looked slowly down at his second floor room number on the piece of paper: B14. His supposed new home.

He looked back up at his trunk. He supposed he would have to try to pull it up the sweeping crimson carpet and black wood staircase himself? He lifted himself up on his tiptoes, grabbed the handle, and began tugging - with absolutely no result whatsoever -

But this would be Harry’s first true lesson that not all families or adults were as awful as his.

“Do you need some help?”

Harry looked around to find a blonde, matronly sort of woman with a heavy French accent bending over to look at him in concern.

“Where are your parents?”

“I live with my aunt and uncle, but they’re… not helping,” Harry admitted, panting.

The woman straightened, her lips thinned disapprovingly. “And you’re one of the new students. Vincent!” she snapped. “Come help!”

A tall, older boy with a black, multi-colored mohawk in a long, fancy trench coat tied at the waist came over. 

“This boy is a new student, but he has no one here to help him,” Vincent’s mother snapped in her heavy French accent. “We will help him instead!”

“Oh, you don’t have to -” Harry began awkwardly.

“Yes, we do! Learn to accept help!” the mother snapped.

Harry was immediately cowed. “Okay.”

Vincent smiled crookedly. “Best to do as she says,” he admitted. “Vincent Claude. I’m one of the older kids here.” He did not share his mother’s French accent, instead sounding English.

“You… don’t sound…” Harry began uncertainly, puzzled.

“Oh. My family are French immigrants. I’m not French, though. I’m just weird,” said Vincent, not sounding apologetic in the slightest.

He and Mrs Claude bickered irritably in French for a few minutes, and then Vincent’s father and two younger sisters came over, and then Harry was suddenly surrounded by a warm, loud, chattering French family.

And then he was being pulled along with their cloud up the sweeping central staircase, his trunk suddenly and miraculously in the stoical, massive Mr Claude’s grasp.

“What’s your room number?” Vincent asked curiously, looking over at Harry. Harry showed him the paper. “Hey! We’re neighbors!” he said brightly. “Mum! This is the kid who’s replacing the one next to me who moved out last year!”

“Oh, well then he’s just on our way!” said Mrs Claude, surprised and pleased.

“My girlfriend is on the other side of you,” said Vincent slyly, mischievous.

“You… have a girlfriend?”

“Yeah. It’s a ‘we’re-kids’ sort of dating deal, but I don’t see why we can’t just keep dating when we’re older,” said Vincent idly, once again totally unashamed of his oddities. “I really should fix you up out of those outfits and haircut, I know some lovely barbers and tailors, for suits and things like that.”

Harry tried to imagine Vincent with his mohawk in a suit instead of a trench coat. Based on his clothes, the Claudes were obviously wealthy.

“What’s your name, anyway? And your story?” said Vincent curiously.

“Oh, well… I’m Harry Potter. I was raised by my aunt and uncle, but they’re… not here right now,” he said, ducking his head. “My cousin is moving into another building. We… don’t get on.”

“Got it,” said Vincent, nodding, blessedly not asking any further questions.

They arrived down some crimson-carpeted hallways and at a door, black wood with creamy white wall trim, labeled B14. Vincent opened the door next to his on the right - then walked over to the door on Harry’s left and knocked. “Astrid!” he called.

The door opened and a beautiful blonde came out, also older. A quiet, dour little family murmuring softly in German came out after her. Clearly, Astrid’s family were also immigrants - just from a different country. But when she spoke, she also sounded English.

“What is it?” she asked, frowning, hand on her hip.

“The new kid between us,” said Vincent, pointing. “His name’s Harry Potter. He grew up with his aunt, uncle, and cousin. He hates his cousin, who’s been put in another building, and his aunt and uncle are perfectly awful people who left him and his trunk in the front entryway.”

Meanwhile, Mr Claude opened Harry’s door matter of factly and carried his trunk inside.

“Well, that’s terrible!” said Astrid, frowning. Then she smiled teasingly, confident, and walked up to Harry, sticking out a hand. It struck Harry that he had never seen anyone so movie star confident and at ease with their own beauty. “Astrid Achenbecch,” she said. “Rock music and photography, mainly.”

“N-nice to meet you,” said Harry, blushing and ducking his head, oddly starstruck as he shook the hand. Just as Vincent was determinedly different from the beginning, Astrid’s easy beauty from the beginning clearly had that effect on people.

“You know, under that awful haircut and those terrible glasses and clothes, you could clean up pretty good,” she said slyly, grinning.

“That’s what I said!” said Vincent, coming up to put his arm around her. “We’ll have to give him a new look.”

Suddenly, a strong male French voice called from within the room, “Come help unpack your stuff!”

Vincent rolled his eyes and Astrid giggled. Harry hurried wide-eyed into the room, feeling oddly like he had just been called in by a very stern father.

The room was nice, if modest. A black wood headboard led to an ornate bed frame, simple soft white and crimson sheets and blankets decorating the bed. There was a bedside table, a desk, a wardrobe, plenty of creamy white wall space, and a black and crimson velvet curtained window. 

Harry walked to the window and looked out wonderingly at a view of the central courtyard. It was crisp and cool, the grass icy, lined with trees shedding fall leaves. A stone pathway surrounded it, stone benches on each side of the square. Beyond the walkway were more turreted Victorian black and red buildings exactly like the main one.

Harry glanced briefly to the one on the left side of the square - Dudley would be there - and then he turned away.

His trunk was now open, and both sets of immigrant adults were standing expectantly in the doorway. Uncertainly and awkwardly, he said, “... To be honest, I don’t have much. And I don’t know where I want any of it to go.”

So the adults started taking things out and putting them wherever they felt best with assembly line like efficiency. Vincent’s parents spent a lot of time arranging things ornately, but Astrid’s parents were good at silently taking out countless piles of stuff and disseminating it around the room miraculously fast.

Standing there, Harry felt touched and oddly grateful.

“Vincent!” Mrs Claude called mercilessly. “Be useful and go show Harry the bathrooms! You’re already mostly set up from last year!”

So Vincent ducked inside, said, “Come with me,” and took Harry down the hall to the nearest bathroom. The room was divided in half - one half countless rows of sinks and stalls, the other half countless rows of showers shielded only by curtains.

As they were walking back, Harry peeked in on other kids, both older and younger, moving with great family commotion into their own rooms… He slowly felt a kind of excitement fill him at all the hubbub. No one was picking on him or looking badly at him at all.

Suddenly, a passing, running kid rammed into him accidentally, and Harry fell over. He just had enough time to look up in startled surprise, before a brunette girl in a brightly colored polka dotted dress ran right over and got right up in the surprised boy’s face.

 _“You apologize!”_ she barked furiously, pointing at Harry. _“Right now!”_

“S… Sorry,” said the kid uncertainly, nervous.

Meanwhile, a Hispanic boy in simple black tee and jeans came over and smiled kindly, holding out a hand. “Here. You’ll be okay,” he said quietly.

Harry gratefully took the hand, pink with embarrassment, and got to his feet.

“Are you okay?” the brightly colored brunette girl demanded. A girl with a buzz cut of black hair had come up to stand beside her. Meanwhile, a freckled, brunette boy with a cheerful face had come over to stand beside the kind, quiet, dark Hispanic boy. All four looked about Harry’s age.

“Y… Yeah. Thanks, I’m fine,” said Harry, both grateful and overwhelmed by the sheer force of her protection after his primary school years.

Suddenly, the girl’s temper left and she smiled brightly and whimsically. “Great!” she said cheerfully, doing a complete 180 and sticking out her hand. “Hi! I’m Clover! Clover Phillips! Here you go.”

She reached into the book bag on her hip and took out a dried daisy flower, handing it over.

“A daisy for you, I think,” she decided dreamily.

“... Thanks.” Harry took the flower and smiled back, pleasantly bewildered. “And… you are?” He turned to the dark-clothed Hispanic boy.

“Edgar Rancina,” said the kid quietly. He seemed to have shoved his hands in his pockets and hunched in on himself again. “I just wanted to help.” He shrugged, easygoing.

“Edgar’s an aspiring punk, and punks always help other people,” said the brown-haired, freckled boy in an Irish lilt. He beamed and stuck out a hand. “Hi! Teagan McClairty!”

“Teagan is taking a huge number of philosophy classes,” said Edgar, amused.

“I’m a nerd,” Teagan admitted cheerfully, open. “Do you like learning?”

“I don’t know… No one’s ever talked much about it to me before,” Harry admitted. He was suddenly aware that Astrid had come over to stand beside Vincent, the two watching and smiling proudly with their arms around each other.

Teagan’s eyes widened in awe. “Then I get to convert you!” he said enthusiastically.

“To memorizing books?” said Harry skeptically, and Edgar snorted in appreciative amusement.

“Oh, there’s so much more to learning than that,” said Teagan thoughtfully, interested. “I would argue,” he added precociously, “that learning is more a process of being creative, getting important questions answered, and acquiring knowledge. And it’s important here,” he added matter of factly.

Aware of the truth in this, Harry admitted, “... Okay. We’ll have to talk about that more. Maybe you will convert me.” He was interested despite himself.

Then he turned to the girls.

“I know Clover… Who are you?” he said curiously, turning to the girl with the buzz cut.

“I am someone taking several specializations that involve beating other people up. I also believe in teaching boys how to be more like girls, more respectful with better manners,” buzz cut girl announced. “... Oh. And my name’s Josephine Harding.”

The boys snickered and Josephine shoved them. Clover was also giggling, but Josephine admitted despairingly in the face of Clover’s multiple personality related brightness, “Do you know, I can never stay angry with you?”

“I know,” said Clover sweetly, a hidden sharpness in her smile.

“So… who are you?” Josephine asked curiously, and everyone turned to look at Harry, standing there quietly and reserved in poor clothes and messy haircut and bandaged glasses.

“... I’m Harry Potter. I’m not from a very good family; they’re not even here, and my cousin’s already on disciplinary watch. I have no idea who I am,” he admitted, deciding all the people around him had been so open that he had to return in kind.

The four kids his age looked thoughtful.

“So… we’re all new?” Josephine assumed, becoming the speaker for the group of five.

Everyone nodded.

“That means we’ll have all our daytime academic classes together!” said Teagan eagerly.

“We should sit next to each other,” said Clover, smiling dreamily.

“Aren’t we getting a little ahead of ourselves?” said Edgar dryly. “We have dinner downstairs in about half an hour first.”

“All right,” said Josephine bossily. “We’ll all meet at the top of the main staircase in half an hour. You too, Harry,” she said, hands on her hips, suddenly stern.

“I… wouldn’t dream of missing it,” said Harry, both with dry humor and because it was true. Edgar chuckled and the others smiled.

“We’re Harry’s neighbors, Vincent and Astrid,” said Astrid. “You guys can sit at our older group’s table next to us. So we’ll meet you there, too.”

And Harry walked off in a kind of surreal dream state again with Astrid and Vincent again.

“See?” said Vincent mischievously. “Everything happens for a reason - even people running into you! Making friends isn’t so hard, right?”

“... It isn’t,” Harry admitted, amazed. Yet again, he thanked goodness he wouldn’t be seeing hardly anything of Dudley.

Dudley had better not mess any of this up for him. He’d just better not.

Harry went back into the room to find all the adults standing around talking, the kids running around, and everything finished up and unpacked. Apparently since Astrid and Vincent had needed no moving in, they had been kind enough to put all their attention on him. He nearly felt emotional with relief and gratefulness.

They saw him and perked up.

“Your new schedule for tomorrow’s classes is there,” said the stern Mr Claude, pointing, and the quiet Achenbecch couple moved aside to reveal the nightstand. There was a piece of paper underneath the bedside lamp. Harry walked over and took it up curiously.

Sure enough, there were his classes, just readable after year one of primary: the daytime primary school coursework, followed by figure skating, baking and tea, surroundings painting, cartoonist caricature drawing, counterculture fashion, and guitar and singing and songwriting.

Vincent and Astrid walked over to look at the schedule curiously.

“Fashion. Perfect. You’ll get the hang of it, then,” said Vincent positively. "Wow, you must have shown loads of potential," he added frankly, impressed.

“See? I told you that you’d clean up nice.” Astrid grinned and nudged him. Harry grinned back, almost despite himself.

He put the schedule back underneath the lamp on his bedside table.

Shortly afterward, the parents and families said their goodbyes there in Harry’s bedroom. Vincent and Astrid seemed quite mature, calm and used to their parents leaving at the beginning of every school year. Both sets of parents hugged both children, and then to Harry’s enormous surprise, both sets of parents hugged him.

He nearly became emotional again as he was swept up into several warm parental hugs.

Mrs Claude, the one who had started it all, leaned him back to look at him. “Be good. Do well at your classes,” she said sternly.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Harry, nodding and straightening, feeling a new determination to actually do well at the classes. “... Thank you,” he added meaningfully.

Mrs Claude simply smiled faintly, nodded, and stood with dignity.

As the families left the three students alone in Harry’s new room, Harry reflected that he was glad after all that the Dursleys weren’t here. The Dursleys had no place in all this new happiness and learning. They already felt oddly small and distant, far behind him.

He was better off spending the most part of his years here.

“Well. Dinnertime,” said Vincent, looking at the round clock that Harry suddenly noticed was high on a bedroom wall. “Let’s go.”

Harry walked behind Vincent and Astrid, back out of the twisting maze of hallways and to the head of the staircase, standing off the side as other crowds of students flooded by. No one else was in sight. Harry stood on his tiptoes and looked around, worried… But Astrid and Vincent stood there, arms as usual casually around each other, looking unconcerned.

Then the people came. Astrid and Vincent’s group of friends… and, amazingly, stupendously, Harry’s new group of friends came into view as well. They grinned and ran over to him.

“There you are!” said Clover brightly, as if they’d been looking for him. 

Harry gave a wide, bright, warm smile. “I’ve been waiting for you.”

“Sorry,” Josephine sighed. “Clover got us lost.”

“I did not!” said Clover indignantly, and the two girls began bickering.

Harry, Edgar, and Teagan smiled at each other with fond, exasperated looks.

“This is the new group of cool kids in set one,” said Vincent matter of factly to his confused older friends. “They’re taking up the other part of our table in the dining and breakfast rooms.”

“... Okay. Cool.” And finally, the other older kids shrugged neutrally and just accepted. Harry learned something - Vincent and Astrid’s casual confidence in being different and themselves got results.

And so Harry smiled, feeling warm, amidst the whole big group of kids as they made their own flood down the staircase and into the dining room.

The dining room had fancy carpeting and lots of little round wood tables, like in a nice French or Italian restaurant. A single lit candle sat in the middle of each huge table. The chef had already brought trays of food to each table, each place being set with white napkins and silverware.

Harry saw bowls of fruits and berries, whole grain buns, big dishes of pasta, great tureens of buttered vegetables, and a great dish of sweet potatoes. There were also platters of chicken breast, seafood, and hamburger.

“Food for athletes,” Vincent explained idly to Harry’s stare. “Breakfast is always either porridge or eggs, too. Good for bulking up and gaining energy. And you look like you need it,” he added, eyeing Harry’s form.

“Yeah. If I’m going to do figure skating, the coach and Ms Mindy said I have to be what’s called ‘slim and lithe’,” Harry explained.

Vincent smiled. “You,” he said in good-natured exasperation, “are ridiculously adorable.” 

Harry blushed. No one had ever called him this before and he had no idea what to think of it.

As everyone sat down at what seemed to be their usual table, Harry’s friends around him on one end and Vincent and Astrid casual and together in the center of their rather fashionable, faux casual dark group at the other end…

Ms Mindy and Mrs Crawford snuck up behind him and smiled, each putting a hand on one of his shoulders. “You doing okay, Harry?” Ms Mindy asked, smiling kindly and shaking his shoulder. “It’s good to see you here!”

“Yes, ma’am, I’m okay,” said Harry, pleased but embarrassed. They seemed to be concerned for him after the day of entrance examinations.

“We’re head managerial staff for set one,” Mrs Crawford explained, as usual a bit more serious and crisp. “We’ll be up there.” She nodded to the long teacher’s table at the head of the room, which the two women strolled away towards.

Harry’s new friends gave him an odd look. Harry shrugged. “Weird relatives and a bizarre entrance examination day,” he explained. 

His friends accepted this, looking curious but satisfied enough.

From there, dinner began, everyone sinking into their food without speeches, pomp, or fanfare. A great clatter filled the fancy dining room. Harry smiled and chatted with his new friends and ate as much good food as he wanted. 

It was one of the most wonderful days he’d ever had, and it was only his first.

After dinner, everyone headed sleepily with pleasantly warm, full bellies back up the stairs to their rooms. Vincent and Astrid helped lead Harry back to his.

“Goodnight, Harry,” they called, smiling before going into their individual rooms.

“Goodnight, you two,” Harry called, and he went through his door at the same time they went through theirs, shutting it.

After figuring out the showers down the hall and getting into his pajamas back in his room, a whole big bedroom all to himself, he fell into bed. The schedule was still on the nightstand next to him. Slowly, lights out and curtains drawn over the window of the courtyard - which was now pleasantly lit in a glittering garden sort of array by lamp posts in the cool autumn night air - Harry sunk into a deep and restful sleep.

His first night at Vituperan a success, from the safety of his own bedroom he looked forward to tomorrow.

Tomorrow morning, classes started in the underground, dark yet strangely lit, glass walled floors of the Basement. Academic classes with his new friends first. But tomorrow morning would also be when he started meeting the instructors and fellows he would be taking his new specializations alongside…


	3. The Project

Chapter Three: The Project

The next day as they climbed down into the cool, glowing yet dark, glass-walled Basement, Harry’s group of five moved in a tightly knit pack, trying to find everything together. 

Breakfast in the breakfast room, once they’d gotten dressed and found the main stairs - a small sunny room full of windows with longer white-clothed tables - had been nice. Again, they had sat with Astrid and Vincent’s quiet, dark yet fashionable group, Astrid and Vincent cool and together in their center. The older kids smiled good-naturedly and teased the somewhat shy younger kids about their first day.

But then it was time for daytime academic classes. So they had to go past the entrance hall staircase, through the little door, down the narrow cold stairs, and into the many glass glowing floors of the dark Basement.

Luckily, all their academic classes took place with their year and set in the same classroom. The older kids took other classrooms. Harry could just see Astrid and Vincent through the glass panels, sitting in a class down hall, from his position in his own classroom.

The academic classrooms were elegant, chic, and modernistic. There were little sleek, curved, movable white desks and attached chairs, and a glowing digital screen for a blackboard. Teachers came in turns, one teacher assigned to each subject and period, and taught the class for their period.

Harry sat with his new friends: Edgar, Teagan, Clover, and Josephine. He tried to pay close attention to his lessons, and Teagan would help him during free periods, or during evening homework times in the upstairs den full of sofas and armchairs and televisions at night.

Teagan was a good teacher. He brightly and enthusiastically showed Harry why different things were interesting, the philosophical aspects of what learning was really all about and why it was important, and he gave him quick shortcut techniques to memorizing as much and getting as good grades as possible.

“This is so you don’t have to put endless hours into your studies in order to get good marks,” Teagan explained.

Harry was surprised that none of his friends ever seemed to slack off.

“We all have to do well here. It’s an important and expensive school,” said Josephine seriously, surprisingly never making rude comments or protesting the work. She may have been tough, but she was also frowning and quietly dedicated. She furthermore demanded that anyone worth associating with show the same initiative.

Clover seemed like she should have been an airhead, but in reality she got amazing marks, proving once again that she was more dangerous than she appeared. She would smile airily and pull Harry back to earth when he seemed to be drifting off in class, tugging kindly at his sleeve.

Edgar was the quietest, most easygoing of the lot, hunched over in dark clothes in his seat. He would lean over his desk and seem to be scribbling idly, but then Harry would look over and realize Edgar had just written in the last hour five whole pages of complex notes. It was intimidating at first.

He tried to keep up with his new friends, and in this way they were all good for him. Harry’s academic mindset slowly improved from “not bad” and into better territory. 

He had been worried he would encounter Dudley out in the courtyard, but this also didn’t happen. Lunchtimes did take place upstairs and out in the sunny, cold central courtyard, accompanied by food produced by the cook and set up in the inside kitchen, but all the sets were rotated through 45 minute lunchtimes at different times throughout the day.

“You probably won’t see your cousin until our first school shopping trip,” Clover told him gently.

Ms Mindy and Mrs Crawford could often be seen bustling around set one, and they always stopped him to ask him how he was getting on - not threateningly, but with genuine interest.

So Harry’s first few academic days went very well. But meanwhile, he had three short specialization sessions per day after lunchtime and academic classes, before dinner and evening homework times upstairs in the den.

On Harry’s first day of figure skating, everyone sat on benches and strapped on skates from the nearby cart, sitting around the ice rink. Curvy little blonde woman Sam Taylor stood in front of them.

“We are going to play this first session by ear,” she said. “I will set you some exercises, and for the ones who complete those before the period is over, I will set further exercises. Got it? 

“Now, before you go on - I know you can do well at this. And you’d damn better believe I expect you to achieve your full potential. Even and especially if you’re a boy. Boys can do this just as well as girls. Never let anyone shame you into thinking differently.

“I will also be giving you all dietary specifications, and I expect you all to both exercise and eat well.

“Now. Let’s head on out there.”

The first exercises Harry finished easily. They were supposed to skate once around the edge of the rink, learn to start and stop, and then skate out into the center if they felt they could.

Most of the kids were slipping and sliding, clinging to the edge of rink, terrified of doing anything but hobbling along. Harry was out in the middle of the rink very quickly. Sam Taylor had them purposefully fall over onto their butts, to get over their fear of doing it.

This, Harry also did easily. He teetered right over and fell onto his butt. It was an unpleasant surprise, but nothing more than that. He quickly got back up again.

When Sam Taylor saw him skating out in the middle of the rink, she told him, “I want you to start doing turns, curves, little loop the loops. Practice skating around and turning in specific shapes. Okay?”

“Alright,” said Harry, and he set to doing this.

To his surprise, only two other students ended up doing the same out in the middle with him.

One was another boy - slim, elegant, and Asian, with black hair and eyes. He had a reserved sort of aura to him. He was skating around very artistically, with great flare and drama.

“Good job,” Harry told him. “Are we… supposed to be doing it like that?” His eyebrow arched in amusement as he paused to look at the boy.

It was the wrong thing to say. “Figure skating is both an art and a sport,” the boy said coldly, snobbish, and he skated away. Harry looked in dismay with his mouth open after him.

“That’s Sebastian Sousen.”

Harry looked around. The brunette girl, pretty with long straight hair, the other skater, had stopped beside him quietly. She seemed nearly as reserved as Sebastian himself.

“And he may be a snob, but he’s very good. He’s right. Never be afraid to be artistic in figure skating. It’s almost like dancing - one of the most graceful and artistic sports available. You’re supposed to flow into the moves. He’s just… starting early and with great drama,” she added dryly, rolling her eyes. “But it doesn’t make him wrong. Most figure skating moves could almost translate into a flowing, on-ice dance routine. Both partners and singles do it, like a dance.”

“... Thanks,” said Harry curiously. “I don’t suppose I know anything about it. Who are you?”

“Madeline Alanza.” The girl looked away. She seemed almost afraid of getting too close to anyone. She was very quiet.

“You know,” said Harry, “I heard quiet people like us are supposed to show themselves best on the ice.”

Madeline looked up in surprise, and held his gaze for an indefinable moment.

“... Maybe,” she admitted, smiling slightly, and she skated away.

Sebastian spent the rest of his time seeming to be in a personal one-way competition to outskate and outperform Harry, with increasingly graceful histrionics. But Harry was more interested by Madeline, pretty but silent and determined to keep everyone including Harry at an arm’s distance, despite their moment of connection.

In baking, everyone was set up with partners before a workstation down one of the long counters in the kitchen. Marcus Billaneous, the large round-faced Black man from before, partnered them up. Harry was set with a big, burly boy with an open, friendly smile.

“Everyone listen up!” said Marcus, clapping his hands. “You’ve all heard from me by now that baking is both an art and a science. And that’s the truth. But,” he said in his deep voice, smiling kindly and cheerfully, “it’s also supposed to be fun! You’re supposed to love baking, and even tea-brewing and cooking, just as much as you love food.

“So let’s all try to have fun!”

He gave them some rules, including for kitchen safety, and then set them to a simple recipe to make biscuits. Harry had to brew his first tea to go with what he was baking - “No matter how badly it turns out, you have to try,” said Marcus seriously on his way by. “Trying and experimenting always come first.”

Once Marcus had walked away, Harry’s partner grinned and stuck out his hand. “Max!” he introduced himself. “Max Shirden!”

“Harry Potter,” said Harry, smiling and shaking the hand.

“My full name is Maxwell.” Max made a face. “Please never call me that. You’re in luck. I come from a sporty family and I’m good at sports myself, but I also love cooking and baking.”

This was Harry’s first introduction to the idea that someone could be both - macho and girly. Max seemed completely cheerful and at ease with his own contradictions.

Harry and Max had fun making awful tea and overly baking the biscuits, making a massive mess and laughing all the while. Making something like that had never been fun for Harry before. And Marcus didn’t seem angry - he expected them to be artists, and he expected them to experiment first.

“If you don’t have it in another few months, I’d be more worried,” he said jokingly.

The rest of Harry’s lessons were taken in art and music classrooms.

His drawing teacher was a bit different.

A thin and balding man, his name was Pierre Johan, and at first he looked more like a maths teacher than an artist. He stood in front of them and said, frowning, “I have high standards in this class and at first none of you will pass them. Let me make that absolutely clearly.

“But hopefully you will start to over time.

“I see cartoonist drawing as a sort of study in geometry, and I’m very precise about things like shading, foreground and background, and shapes. I’m strict, but if you’re good I’ll acknowledge it. Let’s get started.”

He seemed rather forbidding. He took them first through some basic art terminology, and then set them to draw something. “To see how much you already understand. This will not be graded,” he explained.

He walked around, looking at what people were drawing, and he paused by Harry’s table.

“A poor drawing,” he said mercilessly, “but it has a lot of spirit. No technique, but good spirit.”

It was Dudley as a spoiled pig surrounded by endless piles of wrapped gifts.

“There is a lot of anger,” Pierre commented. “Do you feel better, after drawing these?”

“... Yes,” Harry admitted, confused. “Why?”

“This is known as catharsis,” said Pierre. “It is a word that describes releasing emotions, and feeling better because you released them. The trick is to release them in a safe and silent way - like drawing.

“I will bring this anger and sarcasm out of you,” he decided. “You will be very good at caricature when drawing cartoons in this class.”

And he walked away.

“Iris!” he snapped back over his shoulder. “You are as angry as Harry! Help him!”

And so over came a girl with a ponytail in a big black leather jacket - well, big for a child. She sat down next to him. “Iris Hitchcock,” she said without preamble, holding out her hand to shake Harry’s.

“Harry Potter,” said Harry, taking the hand.

“Can I see?”

Harry tentatively showed her the drawing, nervous.

“Is this someone in particular?” she asked curiously.

“My cousin,” said Harry, nodding.

“Ah. Awful family. I’m the same,” she smirked. “But you seem hesitant in showing your work. You don’t like how angry your family makes you?

“I do,” she said bluntly, nodding, surprising Harry. “You have to learn to exist inside that anger, Harry. Look it in the eye. Channel it. Keep it from ruining your life.

“Don’t worry,” she said, smiling toughly. “I’ll help you.”

And stoically, she drew alongside Harry for the rest of the session, giving him pointers.

This was Harry’s first three-day session. The other lessons came the other day.

For painting, Harry sat in the art classroom and watched his new teacher uncertainly. The man was rather airy, humming to himself as he worked around at the front of the classroom, wearing a scarf.

“That’s Nyx Kylen,” said a voice. “He buys into all the gay stereotypes to tell everyone how openly gay he is. He calls it ‘an act of artistic defiance’ which my parents say is a nice way of telling everyone to go fuck themselves.”

Harry looked around. Sitting there, smiling mischievously, was a pretty girl with wild curls in her bun of hair wearing a flowery blouse.

“What’s… gay?” said six year old Harry curiously.

“It’s when a man falls in love with other men,” said the girl matter of factly, sitting beside him. “Some people don’t like it, but my family doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with it. Falling in love with anyone should be a good thing.

“Gay men fall in love with other men. Lesbian women fall in love with other women. Bisexual people fall in love with both,” she finished proudly. “And then straight people only fall in love with their opposite.”

“And… people think all gay people… look like that?” Harry asked uncertainly.

“Yes,” said the girl. “So Nyx Kylen pretends to act that way just to make the people who don’t like gay people - homophobes - really uncomfortable.”

“That’s… cool,” Harry admitted, looking up at the front again with a new admiration.

The girl laughed. “Yeah!” she admitted. “It is! Hi, I’m Lizzie Jensen.” She held out her hand, grinning openly.

“Harry Potter,” Harry introduced himself yet again, smiling and shaking the hand.

Nyx Kylen soon called the painting class to attention. 

“I want everyone to have an equal opportunity to show their true selves here,” he said, “but it has to be within the confines of certain rules. You will be learning how to paint real landscapes, people, and objects, with different styles and thus different set rules. So your paintings have to be based on something, and they have to follow the rules of whatever particular painting style you’re studying at the time.”

He then took them through some basic art history, with real life examples up at the front to analyze through different lenses, and through the different kinds of paints and brushes.

One kid who raised his hand obnoxiously often was a pale and aristocratic boy named Ian Sabbatic. Once, he got an answer wrong while analyzing a painting and flushed red. Harry noticed a detail he hadn’t, raised his hand, and gave the correct answer.

Nyx Kylen smiled at him and Ian Sabbatic gave him a dirty look.

“Ian’s from a a big, strict, high-pressure art family,” Lizzie murmured to Harry. “He won’t have liked that at all.”

Music was taught by a hippie sort of female teacher, with little Lennon glasses and a long ponytail. She sat students in a big circle around her, and Harry was sat between two families: a pair of twin girls and a set of three triplet boys. All were rowdy, joking and jostling with each other, feeding off of each other’s jokes.

The boys were Axl, Creed, and Cooper Moxley. The girls were Daisy and Jane Treesome.

When the teacher wrote her name on the board, one of the Moxley boys muttered to Harry, “She changed her name. It was originally Susan Colburn. She didn’t think it was romantic enough.”

The name on the board said Lorelei Joplin.

“So.” Lorelei clapped and turned to them, surprisingly focused. “Music has two elements. The artistic part is the more obvious one, but music also requires incredible intensity - great dedication.”

And one could see that intensity - in her eyes and her voice.

“I will be trying to teach both elements to you,” she finished.

And that first day, she taught them to tune their guitars, had them sing different notes and get down their vocal range - Harry could sing higher and lighter better than he could sing lower or deeper or louder, even for a young boy - gave them some finger exercises and breath support exercises to practice, and then she gave them some sheet music lessons to look over for homework.

“I will be teaching you how to both read and write music,” she said. “Doing all this is the kind of dedication I expect from any musician. It will just get harder when you learn how to play and sing together, so be prepared.”

But counterculture fashion was perhaps one of the most interesting first lessons.

It took place in an art classroom, except the classroom was filled with huge, life-like mannequins decorated in fanciful outfits. Their teacher, an Asian woman with short dark hair in an eccentric outfit herself, had them walk around and look at what was on display while she gave her introductory talk.

“Fashion is about more than things like color, shape, and cloth. Fashion says something. It gives off ideas. This includes hair, accessories, makeup - the whole routine. These things tell us more about the person wearing them. I will teach you how to ‘say things’ through fashion outfits - as per this class, in counterculture, or rebel and alternative, style.

“On that note, you should know: I myself used to be an avant garde fashion designer in Paris. My name is Bijou Lark Hanakari. Yes I expect you to call me by both first names.”

She seemed exacting, severe.

“Avant garde art of any kind, including fashion, learns all the rules and then purposefully breaks them to say something - to have an unusual effect. I believe in both learning and then breaking all the rules of established conventional fashion.

“And be warned, to those who thought they could slack off and this would be easy: I am just as exacting in learning the rules as I am at learning how to break them.”

Bijou Lark set them in pairs to talk with each other of what they already knew about shopping and clothes.

“Soon after this,” she announced, “I will change your perceptions by beginning to teach you the rules: by revolutionizing the way you look at conventional fashion.”

Harry was paired with a girl named Junia Spirit, who was cheerful and mischievous. She was dressed in an outfit almost as odd and artistic as their teacher’s, very colorful, and she had a confident, headstrong stance with chin lifted and head held high. When Harry admitted he didn’t know much about clothes, Junia announced, “Well I know lots about both clothes and being different. So I’ll help you until you know a lot about the same. 

“You’re my fashion ‘project.’”

“You have two older students to help you,” said Harry dryly, thinking of Vincent and Astrid’s promise. “They’re the cool, weird, dark glamor fashionable type.”

Junia’s eyes narrowed in a grin. “Excellent.”

Harry was now a project - a work in progress, taken on by many friends and teachers. His change into a confident, artistic, athletic, fashionable, and academic Vituperan student had begun.

Harry wasn’t perfect, of course - never would be. But, he was starting to realize, neither were any of the other talented people around him.

So he wondered just what kind of a talented person he would become, out of the ashes of all that quiet uncertainty.


End file.
